It’s humiliation.
It’s Cally standing in the middle of their arena and telling them,You tried.You failed.Watch us leave.
He lifts his stick once, not even celebrating so much as underlining the point, and my chest burns with pride I don’t know what to do with.My whole body hums, adrenaline still high, anger still simmering, and now there’s something else threaded through it—something possessive and primal.
That’s my teammate.
That’s my partner.
That’s the man they’ve been trying to hurt all night, and he just wrote the ending anyway.
We reset for the next faceoff with a two-goal lead and thirty-something seconds left, and Colorado still tries to crash, still tries to make noise, still tries to get under my skin.
But it’s too late.
The air has changed.
They’re chasing a train that already left the station.
I make one more save—simple, clean—swallow the rebound and freeze it, and the ref’s whistle slices through the last of their hope.
The final horn rips through the arena.
And relief hits like a punch.
Our bench empties.The guys pour onto the ice, a rush of bodies and gloves and joy, and for a second I’m swallowed by it—by noise and heat and the blunt truth that we did it.
We beat Colorado.
Then we get down the tunnel and the air changes.
The roar becomes muffled behind concrete.The smell shifts—sweat, tape, rubber, that metallic bite of adrenaline that doesn’t leave your bloodstream even when the game is over.
The hallway is narrow.Bright lights.Nowhere to hide.
Cally walks beside me, still in gear, cheeks flushed, hair damp, grin wide like he stole something and got away clean.
“You see that?”he says, buzzing.“They hated it.”
I glance at him.“You love being hated.”
“I love winning and saying ...in your fucking face,” he corrects, then his voice drops, softer, threaded with something that isn’t performance.“You okay?”
The question lands different here, away from the crowd, away from the rink where we’re supposed to be indestructible.
I nod once.Then I turn it back on him because I’m not built for softness without a fight.“Are you okay?Did they hurt you?”
Cally’s grin fades just enough for the truth to show through.“They tried,” he says.“They didn’t get what they wanted.”
My hands curl again inside my glove.
In the locker room, it’s a storm—guys shouting, laughing, replaying the goal like it’s a holy text.A towel flies.Someone blasts music.The trainer weaves through bodies with the resigned expression of a man who has seen everything and is still underpaid.
Coach gives a short speech about grit, focus, playoffs.
Then Mills Aldridge walks in.
And the room shifts, because owners always change the air.Not because they’re loud.Because they don’t have to be.
